


Still Friends?

by Ribbons_Undone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Pink Panties, Questioning Dean Winchester, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbons_Undone/pseuds/Ribbons_Undone
Summary: Dean wisheshewere a hot cheerleader.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85





	Still Friends?

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag 4x07.

_Witches_. They suck, but Dean has to admit, some of them have style. The _vanity_ , whew, it’s pretty refreshing. Dean wishes _he_ could be a hot cheerleader for all eternity.

He doesn’t really mean to say that out loud, but as soon as he does he regrets it, because Sam is giving him a look that says he just said something _really fucking strange_.

He’s damn glad Sam doesn’t push it—he just goes right on talking about witches and the raising of Samhain—and Dean’s grateful for that. He wants to pretend like it never happened, like he _hadn’t_ imagined himself as a hot cheerleader. He can feel it though—there’s something out in the open now that he never meant to see the light of day.

The feeling stays with him until even after they’ve ganked the bitch and spoiled all of Samhain’s fun. The seal still broke, but at least nobody (well, nobody who wasn’t a swanky _witch_ anyway) died.

Cas shows up after, and the feeling in Dean’s stomach jumps a little. They’re actually having a conversation this time around (He even makes Castiel laugh—Dean didn’t know he could _do_ that), and for once he feels like Cas is being honest with him. Like they’re friends now, maybe. Friends with an angel—his life has gotten so goddamn _strange_ , but he’s grateful to have Cas on his side. Then Cas starts talking about the apocalypse again and Dean tunes out the whole ‘ _we’re one step closer to Lucifer walking the earth’_ speech Castiel is giving him (really, broken record much?). He lets his mind wander and ends up wondering if _Castiel_ would enjoy a frisky blonde cheerleader. Possibly one wearing pink frilly underwear.

“Dean?”

Castiel is giving him a look that speaks of absolute bewilderment. Dean gives his head a little shake and blinks at him, all thoughts of pink satin disappearing as he realizes that maybe his thoughts aren’t as private as he figured.

He blinks again, this time in disbelief. No. Castiel _could not_ be listening in on that. Not while he was talking. No _way_.

But Cas is still looking at him like he doesn’t know what to do with Dean anymore, as though he has misjudged everything about him.

“Shit.” He could. He _did_. “Shit, Cas, you—you didn’t—” Dean practically stutters. He feels his face turning red.

“Dean why are you imagining yourself as a blonde cheerleader? And why am I…naked?” Castiel asks. His voice squeaks a little as he says it, like his tie is suddenly too tight.

They’re having this conversation on a park bench next to a _children’s playground_ and Dean feels dirty, he does. So he decides adamantly that he is going to feign ignorance and firmly deny everything.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, crossing his arms. “I thought we were discussing the _apocalypse_.” He stares at Cas pointedly, mind carefully blank.

Castiel swallows uncomfortably, blue eyes flitting away from him. He slowly picks up where he left off, ignoring the unanswered question that hangs in the air between them.

Dean manages to get through the rest of it without any more mutinous thoughts.

They return as soon as Castiel is gone though—off doing angel things, obviously. The thoughts return while he’s in the shower of all times and then Dean is swimming in them, cock in his fist and a hand on the wet tile as he jerks his hips into his own grip. He comes hard and loud against the shower wall. The hand holding him up slips down and Dean rests his forehead against it, leaning his still-trembling body against the cool tiles. He pants against the wall, trying to fish out a coherent thought in the numbness clouding his mind that can explain everything to him perfectly.

Because in his head, Dean’s no longer a pretty cheerleader with Daddy issues and frilly underwear. Now he’s _himself_ and he’s got his dick up Cas’s ass fucking him like he’s attempting to ride him over the moon.

Dean takes a shuddering breath and seriously considers witchcraft is involved here. Because it’s the only thing that explains this complete and abrupt 180 in his sexuality.

He’s always been into girls. Chicks. Babes. _Not_ men. No _way_. It was boobs, ass, pussy, not _ass_ and _dick_ and—f-fuck. Dean realizes with a sharp inhale that that isn’t entirely _accurate_. There’s one dick/ass combo he really _, really_ likes.

His own.

He’s hot as fuck. He _knows_ it. And to be honest, when he’s going down on a girl? He looks fucking _good_. His dick, hard and pulsing and red-hot, seeping pre-cum like it’s Niagara-fucking-falls? Heck yeah. The way his ass tenses up when he thrusts forward—he’s done it in the mirror, he _knows_ what it looks like from behind. So yeah, Dean thinks _he’s_ hot. But he’s not sure that counts.

Would Cas?

Is that even the _issue_ here?

Dean snorts and finally figures that in order to get an answer he has to approach the obvious question. Did he think _Cas_ was hot?

Dean grimaced on instinct. Oh God, no, anything but that. The question persisted. He tip-toed around it, tried to think about it from an objective point of view.

Ok, yeah, maybe. Maybe if he was some chick with daddy issues the tall, brooding, blue-eyed accountant would seem _sort of_ sexy. In a rough, half-unshaven, hair-mussed sort of way. Tie askew, shirt ruffled and partially un-tucked. Zipper accidentally fallen open. Or tugged down.

Oh shit.

_Shit!_

Dean’s hard again, and there’s his answer. Cas is hot. Cas is _undeniably_ , _unfairly_ hot. So hot it doesn’t make _sense_.

_Fuck_.

This time when he jerks off in the shower, there’s no thoughts of pretty blonde cheerleaders at all—just deep blue eyes and a rough face and wide, pale lips bruised red by his cock sliding in and out.

Dean fists hard and comes embarrassingly fast. He slaps the wall and pants heavily, dropping the throbbing rod of flesh bobbing half-hard between his legs.

_“Shit_.” He says into the tiles. “ _Fuck_. _Cas_.”

And then he has a small heart attack when he realizes he practically _summoned_ the angel to him and pleads silently to _God_ that Cas doesn’t turn up in a _fwump_ of his coat in the small motel bathroom.

Dean gives it two full minutes of horrified breathing before he calls himself safe.

He’d best screen his thoughts more carefully from now on. Dean steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist, breathing a sigh of relief. He streaks a hand across the mirror and stares at himself in it with a frown, wondering when his life got so fucking _complicated_.

Oh yeah, he remembers. _Forever ago_.

When he steps out of the bathroom he expects the room to be empty—Sam is supposed to be out grabbing chow—so Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when he catches a glimpse of a still, humanoid figure out of his left peripheral.

“ _Jesus_. Christ— _Cas_!” Dean swears loudly, clutching at his towel and holding a hand over his chest. He can feel his heart jumping rapidly against his palm, and not all of it is from surprise.

“Dean, we need to talk,” Castiel says. His voice is his signature deep, rumbling heaven. With the floodgates opened, it makes Dean’s toes curl in pleasure.

“It can wait until I’m dressed, Cas. Now scoot.” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, just starts rummaging around in his bag for a change of clothes.

When he glances over again, the angel is gone.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief and tugs on his pants.

Castiel reappears as soon as Dean slides his t-shirt over his abs, and Dean has to wonder if he was spying on Dean the entire time anyway.

“No grass growing under your wings, huh?” he says, annoyed. He doesn’t _want_ to talk. More than that, he _can’t_ talk about it. He’d just ten minutes ago figured out he is… _something not entirely straight_ , the least Cas can do is give him 24 hours before bombarding him with awkward questions.

Castiel nods as though deciding something.

“We can talk later then,” he says, then disappears.

Again. _Again!?_

Dean is shell-shocked for the—what was it, _tenth_?—time that day. He’s lost track. He’s ready to say fuck you to this day and calls it quits. He falls face first into the bed with his clothes on and he doesn’t get up until morning.

Cas turns up a couple days later, quiet and subdued as he approaches Dean. Like he’s had some time to think too, just as Dean has, and maybe thinks he reacted a bit strongly. 

Even though Dean doesn’t blame him for it—in fact, it wasn’t much of a _reaction_ that Cas gave, because Cas doesn’t _do_ reactions. That’s a thing humans do, not angels.

Dean has had some time to think too, but he still has no idea what to say to Cas. He’s hoping he doesn’t have to say anything.

“Dean, just listen to me,” Castiel starts. His voice is soft, lower and smoother than usual.

“Cas, quit reading my mind,” Dean snaps at him. It’s a blatant overstep of his privacy. A man deserved the complete privacy of his thoughts.

Castiel nods.

“Yes, of course. My apologies,” he says.

Dean snorts because there’s irony to the fact that Cas had to _read his thoughts_ to get that it was uncool of him to be _reading Dean’s thoughts_. 

“Just listen,” Castiel says again. “It was not my intention to…overstep the boundaries of our…relationship.”

“Don’t call it a relationship, Cas,” Dean blurts, screwing his eyes shut. That word is _not safe_. Nowhere near it.

“I—what should I call it?” Castiel asks, confused.

“I don’t know. Anything but that,” Dean answers.

“Partnership,” Cas says.

“Not that either. Friendship. Go with that one, yeah?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes at Dean.

“ _Are_ we ‘friends’, Dean?” he asks.

Dean gulps.

“Sure we are,” he says. He looks down, away. “’Course, Cas. You’re my friend.”

“I see.” Castiel is silent for a long moment. “I am confused. I thought friendships were mostly platonic interactions.”

Dean feels the blush rise instantly to his face, fiery and red. He gulps once, twice, three times. Mouth painfully dry, words shriveled up halfway down his throat.

“Th-they are,” he manages, weakly.

Castiel peers at him again, as though he is attempting to decipher something.

“Then…we are not friends,” he says.

“No,” Dean argues. Denial, its taste is sweet. “No, we are. Platonic friends. There’s nothing beyond—” he gestures quickly between them, “— _this_ that is anything more than that.”

Castiel’s eyebrows pinch together. He looks down as he asks, “Then why were you imagining having intercourse with me?”

Dean sputters. The noise that comes out of his mouth sounds a bit like a strangled goat.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean turns away, putting his back to Cas.

Dean wonders later what Castiel was thinking when he did what he did next. Did he expect Dean to do it, or had he expected a punch to the jaw? If Dean _had_ decided to wallop Cas, he supposed it wouldn’t have hurt the angel, and maybe that’s why Cas does it.

Why he steps up behind Dean, places a hand on his shoulder to turn him toward his face, and presses his lips softly against his.

Dean realizes belatedly that he’s not imagining things this time and makes a strangled _wanting_ noise low in his throat. Then he grabs at the scruff of hair at the back of Cas’s head and thrusts his tongue into Castiel’s mouth. Castiel’s hand comes up to grip the back of his neck, keeping them pressed together. He stretches his mouth wider, pants slightly as Dean pulls briefly away and then dives back in. All the way in.

And no, this isn’t something _friends_ do to one another.

“Are we still friends, Dean?” Castiel asks him again once he’s pulled away.

Dean growls and readjusts the grip on his hair.

“Privacy, Cas,” he says. He kisses the angel again, hard. “Yes, we’re still friends.”

Kisses him again. Longer this time.

“But maybe we’re something more too.”


End file.
